


Pleased To Meet You

by entanglednow



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Conversations, Gen, Restraints
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-02
Updated: 2012-11-02
Packaged: 2017-11-17 14:22:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/552509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entanglednow/pseuds/entanglednow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"What were the possible symptoms again? Hallucinations, fever, mental impairment, disassociation, psychosis." Peter's ticking them off on his fingers, like they're in class.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pleased To Meet You

Stiles is currently manacled to a chair, in the basement of Derek's house. Which is really amazingly bad for his sense of calm and well-being.

"This is completely unnecessary you know." He tugs at his restraints, at where he is most definitely restrained, tied down, in bondage - no, God, not bondage, that one sounds awful. The manacles are a little much, are a lot much, if he's being honest. But it's not like werewolves are going to have rope and zip ties lying around. So he can kind of understand that. "They barely touched me. It was, like, a tiny scratch. The sap probably didn't even get through my shirt. This is overkill, way overkill. I don't even - oh my God, this was your idea wasn't it? Does anyone even know I'm down here?"

They must know he's down here, if only because they're werewolves, and Stiles has been complaining pretty much non-stop, since the metal screwed shut.

But the worst part, the absolute worst part, is that for some reason he's being watching by their resident, undead psychopath - and really who said he could join the club anyway? It was totally Derek, wasn't it? Derek has to have final say on all new members of this pack. But Stiles has to admit, he's pretty pissed that he wasn't consulted on this one. Because he would have said no, he would have vetoed the shit out of this, just on principle.

Peter's watching him, from where he's folded easily in a chair across the room - and not in any way tied to it, or restrained. Because the universe enjoys screwing with him. Also, because Peter always manages to come away completely unscathed when any actual fighting goes down. Stiles thinks it's because he slinks off for the worst of it, always hiding, or scheming, from some corner, somewhere. Waiting for the best moment to stab someone in the back - and Stiles still isn't entirely sure who's going to get stabbed.

Peter's smiling at him, like Stiles is a performing monkey, one who's been taught how to do tricks, and he currently has nothing better to do than watch him.

"I have no symptoms," Stiles grinds out. "I'm completely fine." He rattles the manacles, with a couple of quick jerks. "This is bullshit."

There's a curiously lifted eyebrow, as if he's going to have to do better than that.

"Yes, what were the possible symptoms again? Hallucinations, fever, mental impairment, disassociation, psychosis." Peter's ticking them off on his fingers, like they're in class. When he runs out of fingers he just shakes his head, and lets his hands settle again. "So this is for your own good."

Stiles knows what the symptoms are, he did the research himself, while Derek breathed over his shoulder like a Neanderthal, growling demanding and unhelpful things (it's like Derek doesn't think he knows what the word 'no' means sometimes.) Stiles is the one that had to explain it all to the pack, forewarned is forearmed and all that. While Peter hovered in the background, pretending to look like he didn't care that Derek still didn't trust him enough to let him do the research. Or actually not caring? Stiles honestly doesn't know which of those applies. It would be helpful to know if Derek knew which it was. If Derek knows what Peter actually wants, what he's capable of now. Or whether Derek's opinion of his uncle is still coloured by what he remembers. By whoever Peter used to be, when he was a kid.

The way Peter trots out his clever and charming routine, offers his help like he's trying to atone for his sins - it would be really helpful to know if he was planning to sell them all out later. Stiles is going with a tentative yes, because he feels like if no one else is going to look out for everyone, then he's going to err on the side of caution.

So, yeah, Stiles can't help but wonder if it's going to be another one of the things - the many, many things - that he's going to have to keep reminding people. 'Don't trust Peter, one day he may actually try to kill us all.' He'd make flashcards, if he thought that would help.

What he's basically saying is, if there was a list of all the people Stiles would let tie him to a chair - and considering their life on a daily basis, he thinks maybe he should actually make that list - Peter would not be on it. Peter would be on another list entirely. Which is why Stiles is understandably pissed at this turn of events.

"Dude, I think it's pretty clear that none of that's happening to me right now," Stiles says tightly, and twists at his restraints again. "I'm not mentally impaired, which is pretty obvious and I know you're aware of that. Because I find being alone in a room with you, while I'm tied to a freakin' chair, pretty skeevy, just so you know. So, yes, not mentally impaired - I'm so completely and totally paired right now."

"You're certainly _something_ ," Peter says, head tipped sideways, expression amused in a way that tells Stiles that's not a compliment. "Unfortunately you have to stay here until you're - until we know for certain you're not going to exhibit any other symptoms. I suggested locking you away by yourself, but I was outvoted on that, which was very annoying, outvoted and shouted down, I might add. So you can thank werewolf democracy for my company." Peter shrugs, like he thinks everyone else is an idiot, but is forced to bow to public opinion, for now.

But Stiles is kind of pissed that everyone else - that a bunch of werewolves - decided he needed to be babysat, without even a hint of craziness. The hiker in the woods had started freaking out literally minutes after getting scratched.

And he's going to hurt himself if he keeps tugging angrily at the manacles.

"So, yeah, the locked room thing I'll let you have. I'm human, I'm pretty sure if you locked me in a room I'd be good. But the whole medieval bondage thing is so far beyond overkill. Do you have any idea how freakin' heavy these things are? Who the hell decided I needed to be chained up? They're made of metal you know - and the whole prisoner thing is really just not working for me."

"Oh, I don't know," Peter says slowly, as if Stiles has said something funny. "It's surprisingly interesting from this angle."

Stiles can't do much but clank in protest to that, and possibly bruise. He bruises very easily, did no one consider that, before chains were an option?

"Don't even start, seriously. I'm really not in the mood for creepy voyeuristic amusement right now. There has to be a better way of quarantining me, or controlling me, or whatever. You're all super-strong, and it's not like the house isn't wrecked already. Do I really have to be manacled to a chair? Which is - Jesus, are the manacles also manacled to the floor? What kind of werewolf sex party set up is this?" Stiles realises that last part probably should have stayed inside his head, because there are far too many teeth in Peter's laugh.

Stiles glares at him.

"Why are you watching me anyway? Why not Derek? Honestly, I would take six hours of angry glaring, and monosyllabic responses, over your face any day of the week."

Peter makes a noise, some sort of choked laugh, which he immediately smothers.

"I'm sorry, did you miss the part where there were people made of trees who could cause people to hallucinate and go mad? I thought _you_ were in charge of research? I thought we'd already gone over this part. There's a certain amount of necessary damage control going on. Derek is...otherwise occupied." Peter gestures, in a way that could mean he's upstairs, or outside, or on the freakin' moon.

Stiles give him his best bitchface.

"Yeah, but why do I get left with _you_ , why not Scott?"

The expression on Peter's face isn't amusement then, it's genuine, even if it's not much more than a frown, and a faint tightening of his eyes, but it's not for effect any more.

"Scott may or may not also be in manacles, due to his stupid heroics trying to save - well, you. Overall the whole thing turned out about as well as Derek's plans usually do."

Stiles tries to move, instinctively, and ends up with heavy metal clanking down on both wrists. He takes a moment to wince at his own stupidity.

"Jesus, they got Scott too? Did he - is he - come on? I know you have a kind of weird protective thing going on with Scott, which yes, so creepy, but at least tell me if he's ok."

"Oh, he'll be fine by morning," Peter says, dismissing Stiles's concern like it's completely unnecessary. "As will you, we assume - should you show any symptoms. Which I'm sure everyone will be very relieved about." He leans back on the chair, until it creaks.

Stiles can't help reaching for something that will get him out of here.

"Well then isn't there some sort of thing, some sort of 'if I haven't had any symptoms in a couple of hours it's safe to assume I'm ok.' I'm pretty sure it's been at least an hour." Stiles tries to gesture with his chained hands.

"It's been forty minutes," Peter says, without looking at a watch, or a phone, or anything. So Stiles really has no way of knowing whether he's bullshitting, or whether he's just really good at measuring time. Peter really is a bottomless pit of mystery - and not in a good way.

"Which is long enough, right?" It feels like a lifetime, his legs are going to go to sleep.

Peter shrugs, as if it's not his decision, and yeah, Stiles could laugh at that. Not because it's funny, but because he's damn sure that Peter does whatever the hell he wants. Self-serving son of a bitch that he is. No offensive to, like, Derek's grandmother, or whatever.

"Think of it as a preventative measure then." The grin that comes with that is so very unnecessary. "We wouldn't want you escaping and hurting yourself, or others." Peter looks far too satisfied for Stiles to be comfortable with. Because he's pretty sure the only person in danger of getting hurt if he does flip out is him. He really doesn't think Peter will be gentle getting him back in the chair. But it's something better than sitting here, ass going numb, face itching.

"You think this is funny don't you?" Stiles says, all frustrated bite and annoyance.

Peter nods without hesitation.

"Yes, I think it's hilarious. Which doesn't change the fact that I'm here to make sure you don't hurt yourself. Though sometimes I have no idea why I bother, since  you're - all of you, seem to enjoy hurling yourself into danger like it's an extreme sport you've all signed up for."

"Dude, you could always tie me down again, if I start freaking out - which, oh my God, sounds so very wrong, and I can assure you that is the one and only time in my life I will ever say that to you. Just so we're clear." Stiles shudders. Which makes Peter give an over-exaggerated eyeroll that looks more like amusement than hurt.

"Why does everyone think the worst of me?" Peter says, conversationally, as if he's genuinely curious.

"Because you're the worst," Stiles tells him. At this point he has to wonder if Peter really is a mangled ball of issues and psychosis. Or whether he's just horribly sane, and there really is nothing left inside him but charred wood, sarcasm, and a curiously detached amusement at the rest of the world. "Seriously though, why you? Was everyone else busy? I know I'm scintillating company and everything, but you must have something better to do. What about Isaac? Erica? Boyd? I would even take Lydia's cutting, knife-sharp comments about how I'm going to come to a sticky end, possibly between something's teeth." She'd actually said Derek's teeth, but he's not going to share that. Stiles stops and considers Peter's face. "Oh, I forgot she still has that supernatural restraining order thing going against you, doesn't she?"

He's expecting irritation, something brief and honest. But instead, Peter gives him an odd, crooked smile, like he was expecting it. Stiles gets the feeling he really doesn't want Peter finding him predictable.

"I think avoiding Lydia would be for the best, until she's come to terms with the whole -" Peter waves a hand, in a dismissive sort of way. "Semi-possession, hallucinatory, bringing me back from the dead affair. It's almost certainly too soon."

"Yeah, it has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that she threatened to drug you, and cut your balls off, if you ever came near her again," Stiles offers.

"I think she's warming to me." Peter sounds like he may actually believe it too.

"You do know she neither forgets nor forgives," Stiles says fiercely.

"Do I strike you as the sort of man who wants her to?" Peter's wearing that smile Stiles hates, the one that says he'd be equally amused whether Stiles spent all night trying to get a rise out of him, or went completely insane on tree people venom, and hallucinated some sort of spider-infested hell.

Sadistic voyeurism feels disturbingly like it should be Peter's thing.

"Dude, do you _have_ a less creepy smile?"

"Yes, but this one's my _favourite_."

Stiles sighs and drops his head onto the back of his chair, it smacks into the wood - which is louder than it is painful. But he complains anyway, just to hear Peter grumble under his breath about being surrounded by children.

"Ok, no more talking about Lydia," Stiles says firmly. Because you don't flash one of your weaknesses when it's something that's already taken a hit, and is still recovering.

Peter crosses his ankles, folds his arms, and makes an approving noise in his throat.

"I think we should talk about the aggressively flirtatious relationship you have going on with my nephew," Peter says, in that casual way he has, that really means he's been waiting for the perfect time to bring it up. Because he's an asshole.

"We do not - I do not have any sort of relationship going on with Derek," Stiles says stiffly, and kicks at the chain by his foot.

Peter sighs, loud enough for Stiles to know it's meant to be mocking.

"Oh we know, we all know, it's very depressing, and exhausting, to watch you both not having a relationship. Do you have any idea what it's like to live in a house where frustration and denial are practically curling off the walls? Especially when most of the walls are falling down already."

Peter's staring at him, eyes fixed, and Stiles is completely ignoring the way his face heats, because his body thinks it's hilarious to make sure he fails at lying before he's even opened his mouth. Peter's fascinated amusement just makes it worse.

"There is no - there's no sexual frustration between me and Derek. I don't - there's nothing between me and Derek  "

Peter tips his head and hums at him, like Stiles has proven his point already.

"Tell that to your bedroom, Stiles."

"Oh my God, when were you in my _bedroom_?!" Because that is disturbing on so many levels.

Peter sighs, like he's missing the point.

"Doesn't everyone end up in your bedroom at some point? No wonder you can never find the time to actually have sex in it. There's always someone bleeding on your floor, or hiding from the police in your closet, or sleeping off hallucinogens in your bed. And when I say _someone_ , I mean Derek, obviously"

"Oh, fuck you," Stiles says simply.

Peter tuts at him for his language.

"Accepted, I made that point in a fairly crude way, but it still stands."

"Dude, we're not talking about this," Stiles says stiffly. "Why am I even talking to you? I don't talk to you."

"And yet, Stiles - you're willing to talk about everything else, to avoid this. To an exhausting and unbelievable degree." Peter clicks his teeth at him, and then nods. "I'm rather enjoying this opportunity to have a conversation with you, while you're unable to leave. We should do this more often."

"Do you listen to yourself?" Stiles says incredulously. "Did you pull that straight from the kidnapper's handbook? This is why no one trusts you. This is not a freakin' interrogation."

"On the contrary, I think this is the perfect time, now I have your undivided attention."

"You have my non-consensual attention," Stiles says grumpily.

Peter sighs, and pulls a face at him.

"Well now you've just made it sound disturbing and uncomfortable."

"Which pretty much sums up how you make me feel _all the time_ ," Stiles points out, because he thinks that's fair.

"No, that's how -" Peter stops talking, mouth slanting from irritated to amused again, and Stiles really wants to know what he was going to say. But he can't even tell by looking at Peter's face. Which slips between emotions so easily that Stiles can't help but suspect a lot of them are faked. "You're really good at this," Peter adds, which doesn't make a whole lot of sense.

"At what?" Stiles demands.

Peter ignores the question and just stares at him, as if he's trying to read something in Stiles's face. But judging by the frustrated little crease between his eyebrows he doesn't find it.

"What's your first name, Stiles?" he asks curiously. Which is a subject change out of absolutely nowhere, and it immediately leaves Stiles confused and wary.

"What?"

"Your first name," Peter says smoothly, and he's half smiling now. "That seems like an easy question, and I'm curious. I don't know it, after all. I'm assuming that Scott does, you've been friends for - how many years? - so he must do. But you don't actually use it, do you?"

"I don't - " Stiles shakes his head. Then tightens his mouth because - because he can't remember his own damn name, and that's bizarre enough to leave him floundering for a second. "Ok, so maybe the stuff did affect me a little bit. It's not like I use my first name that much." He shakes his head again, like he might be able to rattle it into reach.

"How about something else then?" Peter says with a nod. "When's your birthday?"

Stiles blinks.

"I don't - I don't know," he says numbly.

Peter nods like he was expecting it.

"What's your father's middle name?" He doesn't want for an answer. "What about pets growing up, did you have any? How did you get that scar on the back of your hand? What was your mother's name? You must remember her name?"

Stiles glares at him, at the line he's on the verge of crossing, because there are places even the people who know him don't get to go. But Peter doesn't look amused any more, he looks...curiously intense.

The questions are all easy, and Stiles knows the answers to them - he should know them, why doesn't he know them?

"What are you doing?" Stiles says, mouth dry, and there's a shiver of unease making its way through him.

Peter drags his chair closer, a scrape of wood across the floor that grates unpleasantly.

"I'm just curious to know how far down the rabbit hole this goes. It's fascinating, really it is."

"What's that supposed to mean. You know something, don't you? You always know something. What do you know that I don't?" Stiles twists his wrist inside the manacle, watches metal grate against his skin.

Peter's still watching him. Almost as if he's waiting for something.

"You really don't see it, do you? You really think everything's normal. You really think -" He stops, and Stiles doesn't like the expression he's wearing. He doesn't like Peter looking at him like that. Fascinated, and satisfied, and amused, all at the same time.

"See what? What is it I'm not supposed to be seeing," Stiles says angrily, though he can hear the faint waver underneath the demand.

"They don't want me to say anything, they think it will be easier if you just ride it out. If I let it come back to you gradually." Peter shrugs. "But I've lost my appetite for doing what I'm told."

Stiles heartbeat is dizzy fast now, and he knows Peter can hear it, knows because of the way he looks at him, and he's afraid to speak again, afraid that if he speaks that Peter will laugh and leave. Stiles gets the feeling there's something he needs to know. Something he needs to know, no matter how afraid he is to hear it.

"What's going on?"

"Who are you?" Peter asks quietly.

For a second Stiles thinks he's misheard.

"What? What the hell's that supposed to mean?" Stiles says, and his voice sounds paper-thin.

Peter rolls his eyes, climbs off the chair, and goes over to the far wall, there's a frame there, dusty and tarnished. Peter spins the silver length of it with one hand and smiles, vicious and wide, taps the dusty, shiny glass, before rubbing his sleeve against it a couple of times, and then tilting it towards him.

Only he isn't him.

" _Oh my God_ ," Stiles says faintly, and he watches the words come out of his mouth, and it's wrong, it's all wrong.

"I must say, you did a fabulous job, you must have spent hours watching him, to be able to get it exactly right. Even your heartbeat sounds the same."

"I don't understand," Stiles says, and watches his face curve into a familiar frown.

"You're not Stiles, because it wasn't just a scratch out in the woods, and Stiles is upstairs right now, half out of his mind. Erica and Isaac have been taking turns trying to hold him down. Which you'd probably be able to hear right now, if you remembered that you had senses you're not using."

Stiles is shaking - only he's not Stiles is he, he's Derek.

But how can he be Derek?

Peter comes closer, crouches in front of the chair, in front of Derek's legs and Derek's boots, puts his hands on Derek's knees, and Stiles is still shaking his head in shock, because he's not - he can't be.

He isn't.

"Do you understand why you're wearing chains now?" Peter says quietly.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] Pleased To Meet You](https://archiveofourown.org/works/715578) by [erica_schall](https://archiveofourown.org/users/erica_schall/pseuds/erica_schall)




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